Because I Love You, Goodbye
by PippinDuck
Summary: A QL backstory about Al and Trudy Calavicci on the day Mrs. Calavicci left the family. Was it really for the reason Al thought in Jimmy? All the usual disclaimers apply. Copyright belongs to Universal, Bellisarius, etc. With thanks.
1. Chapter 1

Because I Love You, Goodbye  
by Jennifer L. Rowland  
  
The door slammed behind the little boy as he rushed into the house. He'd saved his lunch money all week to buy the surprise for his little sister. He smiled to think how her face would light up when he gave it to her. She'd pointed to it the last time Momma had taken them to the five and dime. But Papa was away again, and money was tight. Momma always got upset at any reminder of how poor they were, so the little boy had decided to save up and buy it himself.  
He found his sister staring out the living room window. Her long brown hair was tousled, covering the round face with the telltale features of Down's Syndrome.  
"Hiya, Squirt," he said.  
His sister spun away from the window excitedly when she heard his voice. "Al!" She ran to deliver a hug and kiss.  
"I got something for you, Trudy." Her face lit up even more. "Close your eyes and put out your hands." He reached into his satchel and dropped a box of crayons into her outstretched hands. "Okay, you can open 'em now."  
Trudy squealed with delight at the colorful wax sticks. She opened the lid and pulled out the red, her favorite color. She turned it over and over in her hand, mesmerized by its brightness.  
Al plunged his hand into his satchel again, coming up with a sheaf of drawing paper tied up with a red ribbon. "You need something to draw on, don't you think?" he said with a smile.  
Trudy's beaming face brightened even more. Al was glad he'd gone without lunch that week. Anything he could do to make Trudy happy; she certainly had enough to deal with. Last week, one of the Gibson boys had thrown a rock at her, taunting her about her appearance. Al chased him for a block before getting into a scuffle that cost him a bloody nose. But the smile now gracing Trudy's face made it all worthwhile.  
"Well, aren't you going to draw something?" Al asked.  
Trudy shook her head, hugging the paper and crayons to her chest. "Not yet." She held up the red crayon. "Too pretty."  
Al laughed and hugged his little sister. "I'm glad you like it." He looked around the living room. His mother's tan coat lay in a disheveled pile on Papa's favorite chair. "Where's Momma?" Trudy stiffened in his arms and looked uncertainly to the dining room. Al heard the clink of glass against glass. He winced and hugged his sister tighter.  
"Al?" The voice from the dining room was beginning to slur. Even a six-year-old could tell that a large amount of alcohol had been consumed. "Albert!"  
"Yes, Momma?" Al patted his sister's shoulder to reassure her, and himself. Their mother's voice had the impatient edge that too much gin brought.  
Mrs. Calavicci staggered into the living room clutching the bottle of gin. Her other hand held a glass of the liquor. "What took you so long to get home?" she demanded.  
Before he could answer, Trudy toddled forward, her arms extended with the crayons and paper. "See?"  
Mrs. Calavicci's eyes narrowed menacingly, "Where did you get that?"  
Trudy smiled at her big brother. "Al."  
Their mother whirled on Al. "Did you steal that?"  
"No!" Al was indignant.  
"Then how did you pay for it?"  
Al knew his mother would be furious if she found out he'd used his lunch money. He opened his mouth to deliver a story, but the growling of his empty stomach reached the surface before his words.  
The bottle and glass came down onto the living room table with a crash. Gin sloshed over the side of the glass. Al yelped as his mother grabbed his arm. "You used your lunch money, didn't you?" She shook him, "Didn't you!"  
"Momma, I only wanted to do something for Trudy," Al stammered.  
That statement earned him a slap across the face. "Are you saying I can't take care of her?" Mrs. Calavicci shouted. "The money only goes so far! That money was for your lunch, not for you to spend on useless things!"  
"But, Momma, I . . ."  
"Shut up when I'm talking!" Mrs. Calavicci screamed. "I told her we couldn't afford that! How do you think that makes me look!"  
"Momma, I'm sorry. I just thought . . ."  
"No, you didn't think! You never think, you worthless child!" Another slap rapidly descended on the little boy. Tears welled up in his dark eyes, but he refused to let any of them spill over. He smiled at his terrified sister to let her know everything would be okay. Mrs. Calavicci saw the smile and angrily misinterpreted it as impudence. "You think this is funny, young man?" the alcohol roughened voice tightened in rage. Al cried out as the new barrage of blows struck old bruises. The tears he'd been holding back ran down his cheeks. He fell to his knees as his mother shoved him, advancing on the quivering Trudy. The child still clutched the crayons and paper.  
"No, Mommy. Pretty," Trudy said in a small voice. The four-year-old backed into a corner. "Pretty from Al."  
Reminding Mrs. Calavicci of who had bought the crayons and drawing paper was not a good idea. She viciously knocked the precious gift out of Trudy's hands. Crayons scattered across the living room floor. "Go to your room," ordered Mrs. Calavicci.  
Trudy stared in horror at the rainbow rolling in all directions. "No! Mine!" She scrambled after the crayons. Trudy screamed as Mrs. Calavicci grabbed her by the curls. "I told you to go to your room!" She raised her flattened hand to strike.  
"No!" Al yelled. He ran in front of Trudy; the blow intended for his sister caught him hard across the back. "Go to your room, Trudy. Please," he coughed out. Trudy disappeared down the hall. Although he was still gasping for breath, he relaxed now that his sister was out of harm's way. His relief was short-lived, though. His mother was in a drunken rage.  
Mrs. Calavicci snatched a handful of Al's hair and twisted it. Tears of pain stung his eyes. "So now you think you can raise her better than me?" Al had never before heard so much anger in his mother's voice. Frightened, Al tried to pull away, but his mother's grip was too tight. His futile efforts further enraged his mother. She slapped him, the large diamond of her engagement ring caught him on the brow. A trickle of blood ran down his left cheek.  
"Momma, I'm sorry," he sobbed. "I thought it would help."  
"I do not need you to raise my daughter for me!" Mrs. Calavicci shouted, punctuating each word with a slap. Another cut opened up on Al's cheekbone.  
Anger displaced his fear. Al shouted through his tears, "I just wanted to make Trudy happy! You don't seem to care about that!"  
Mrs. Calavicci flew into a blind rage. Savage blows rained upon the small body. The storm of fury came to an abrupt stop when Al's head impacted with the wall. The child's eyes rolled back into his head before he slumped into an insensate heap.  
Horrified, Mrs. Calavicci backed away from the crumpled form of her son. Her retreat was stopped by the living room table. The gin bottle clinked against the glass as a result of the vibration. A shaky hand reached back for the glass. The ice tinkled inside as the shivering hand brought the glass to her lips. A small voice interrupted her.  
"Mommy?" Mrs. Calavicci saw Trudy's round face peering into the living room. "Why Al go nite-nite?"  
Mrs. Calavicci's body was racked with sobs. "Go back to your room!" she screamed. Trudy vanished. Mrs. Calavicci looked at the glass in her hand. She hurled the glass across the room. It shattered against the far wall.  
Her hands clamped over her mouth, Mrs. Calavicci fell to her knees beside the unconscious body of her little boy. Unsteady hands lifted the motionless form and cradled it in her lap. Tears splashed on her son's forehead as she smoothed his hair.  
"Oh, Al. Baby, Momma's sorry." She began to rock back and forth, still hugging her son. "Shhh, sweetheart. Momma didn't mean it." An agonized scream escaped from her throat. "Dear God, help me," she sobbed. She lifted the hand that had been caressing his cheek to wipe away the tears that blinded her. Mrs. Calavicci choked when she saw the blood on it- -Al's blood--her son's blood.  
"Oh, God, no," she whispered in horror. She hugged her unconscious son tighter. "I can't do this anymore," she wept into Al's hair. "It isn't fair to you, or to Trudy. I can't make my babies suffer for my mistakes."  
The gin bottle rested on the living room table, directly in her line of sight. The label taunted her, inviting her to drown away the harsh reality. "No," she forced herself to look at the small bruised face in her lap. But her gaze kept bouncing up to the gleaming bottle.  
"Go away!" she screamed at the bottle. "Go away," she repeated over and over again. Mrs. Calavicci looked at Al's unconscious face again. She could hear Trudy's crying drift down the hallway. "Yes, go away. I'll go away."  
Mrs. Calavicci got up and carried Al to the couch. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, baby," she whispered. She kissed Al's forehead. "I love you."  
Mrs. Calavicci went to her room to pack. 


	2. Chapter 2

Mrs. Calavicci propped the note for her husband against the dresser mirror, where he would find it on his return the next day. She walked into the living room with a suitcase in each hand and checked the window for her taxi. It was waiting at the curb. Mrs. Calavicci looked at her home one final time before locking the door behind her.  
The clicking lock was the first sound Al heard as consciousness returned. Despite a splitting headache, he got up from the couch to look out the window. He saw his mother helping the taxi driver lift her luggage into the trunk of the cab. "Momma, no!" he cried.  
Al ran to the door, but couldn't open it. It had been locked from the outside, and Al couldn't unlock the deadbolt without a key. He frantically jiggled the door knob, crying for his mother all the while. Realizing the futility of his effort, Al ran into the kitchen, which was closer to the street.  
Al climbed onto the counter, pressing his hands against the kitchen window. "Momma, no! Don't go!" he screamed as he beat against the window. "Momma! Come back!" Al saw Mrs. Calavicci look back before she sat down in the taxi and closed the door. "No!" Al screamed. He beat his hands against the window so furiously that one hand went through the glass. Al didn't even notice; he continued calling for his mother. "Momma! Come back! I'll be good! Don't go!" Al screamed for his mother until his throat was raw.  
Al would never know how his screams tore at his mother's heart. All he knew was that his mother was leaving. He continued crying for his mother after the cab was out of sight.  
"I'll be good, Momma. Come back," he whimpered. The cold air bitterly nipped his fingers as he waved his arm through the broken pane. He stretched his fingers out, snatching at empty air. "MOMMA!" he screamed again.  
He stayed at the window for what seemed like an eternity, but the bright yellow taxi never rounded the corner. The thick, hot tears filling his eyes blinded him. He pulled his hand back through the broken glass. New cuts appeared on his arm from the shards remaining in the window pane. Al couldn't hold back a whine of pain, and he hugged his arm against his chest.  
He leaned his head against the cool glass of an unbroken pane. The sharp, shooting ache in his head was making the little boy sick to his stomach. A fat tear splashed off the end of his nose and landed on his bleeding arm. He winced at the sting from the salty water.  
With his arm pressed against his chest, Al clambered down from the counter, swaying when his feet hit the floor. He sank to the floor, leaning against a cabinet door flaking yellow paint. He stared at the red streaks on his arm, corresponding to wide stains on his white shirt. Momma wouldn't be happy about the mess he'd made of his shirt, Al thought. He began sobbing again at the thought of his mother. "Momma, come back," he whispered, fighting to force the sounds past the thick sobs in his throat.  
The force of his weeping combined with his lacerated arm and sickening pain in his head soon proved too much for the little boy to handle. Unable to run to the bathroom, he leaned into a corner and was sick. Without a parent around to soothe his face or wipe his mouth, Al found no comfort from his nausea. He lay on his back on the cold linoleum and cried, his breathing spastic from the tears and the mild panic he always felt when he threw up. Al closed his eyes in an attempt to stop the kitchen from spinning about him.  
"Al?" A small voice squeaked in his ear. Al reluctantly opened his eyes and turned his head to the side. Trudy's tear-stained face came into slow focus before his eyes. She huddled on the floor in a tight ball, gazing on her big brother. "Where's Mommy?"  
Al swallowed hard, battling another wave of nausea as he sat up. Trudy immediately snuggled against him. "She . . . sh-she left," Al answered.  
Trudy turned her face up and blinked furiously. "Mommy go bye-bye?" she asked. She burst into tears and buried her face in her knees.  
Al sighed and wrapped a comforting arm around his sister's shuddering shoulders. "It's all right, Trudy. I-I'm here."  
Trudy slowly lifted her head. Al brushed the tangled brown locks from her face. Her round face was flushed and a small trail of mucus was making its way down her upper lip. Al crawled to the table, too dizzy to walk. He pulled himself up with his good arm and reached for a napkin from the nearest place setting. He crawled back to the sniffling Trudy and began cleaning her face.  
"Blow," he instructed her, holding the napkin below her nose. Trudy complied, giggling as she always did, despite her tears.  
"Al!" Trudy shouted. "You hurted?" She pointed to his right arm he still cradled against his body.  
"I-I'm okay, T-Trudy," he stammered. He shook his head to clear it and immediately regretted it. The shooting pain resurrected a powerful wave of nausea. He dragged himself back to the corner where he had been sick earlier as quickly as he could. He spat and shoved himself away equally as quickly and lay on the floor again.  
Trudy curled next to her prostrate brother and stuck her thumb in her mouth. Al was feeling so sick he didn't even try to deny her her pacifier, despite the fact he and their father had been trying to break her of the habit. He missed their mother so much that he, too, shoved a thumb in his mouth, something he hadn't done for several years. He gradually inclined his head until it was resting against Trudy's. Then both children fell asleep. 


	3. Chapter 3

"I want Mommy!" Trudy wailed.  
Al battled dizziness and forced his eyes open. Trudy was no longer curled by his side. The dizziness disoriented him so much that he was unable to locate his sister by her cries. He pushed himself onto his elbows to look around the kitchen for Trudy. When he raised his head, he saw a small, brown mouse climbing across his shoe.  
Al screamed. Kicking his legs violently, he scrabbled crab-like out of the kitchen.  
The living room was pitch black, which frightened the little boy to nearly the same degree the mouse had. He struggled to adjust to the darkness so he would be able to find Trudy. Trudy became absolutely terrified in the dark. Al strained his eyes against the weak light of the crescent moon. Trudy's cries were muffled now, so he knew she had hidden herself where she could bury her face to feel safe.  
"Trudy? Where are you?" he called. He walked forward with his hands outstretched before him like a blind man. He stumbled into the table, knocking over the abandoned gin bottle. Al yelped as the alcohol poured off the table onto his wounded arm.  
Trudy screamed in terror and began sobbing. Al squinted until he made out the shape of his little sister shivering on the couch. Ignoring his stinging arm, Al shoved past the table and joined Trudy on the couch. She screamed and fought against him when he put his arms around her.  
"Trudy, it's okay. It's me. It's Al," he tried. "It's dark, Trudy. I don't want you to get hurt."  
Trudy stopped struggling. "Al?" She narrowed her eyes and tried to focus on her brother. She squeezed him tightly. "Dark, Al. Too dark."  
"I know, Trudy," Al said. "It's okay. I'm here."  
"Light, Al? Make the light."  
Al stared across the dark room at the wall by the kitchen. He heard the mouse skittering around the kitchen and gulped. Moving toward the light switch would not only require him to navigate the dark room, but it would place him near the mouse again.  
"Um, if I turn the light on I have to get up, Trudy," Al said, hoping Trudy would decide she preferred his company to having the comforting glow of the light.  
"Okay, I get up, too," Trudy amiably said.  
Al tried to sound brave. "Okay, Trudy, hold my hand then."  
She grabbed his hand and clung close to him. Taking very small steps, Al led his sister from the couch to a spot right below the light switch. Trudy stumbled once on a wrinkle in the rug. As she lost her balance, she wrenched Al's arm. Al bit his lip to keep from crying out and scaring her. He steadied her and silently continued toward the light switch.  
"We there?" Trudy asked.  
Al nodded before he remembered Trudy couldn't see him. "Uh-huh." Al stood on his tiptoes and stretched up as high as he could. His balance was off and his body ached, so he found it difficult to push up on the stiff switch.  
Trudy plopped on the floor and started crying. "Light!" she whimpered.  
"I'll try," said Al. He jumped and pushed up on the switch. The light flickered on as his feet landed on the ground. The pain in his head flared sharply, doubling him over with nausea. It took a tremendous effort for the child to keep from throwing up.  
Trudy sighed with relief and smiled up at her brother. "Light, Al. Light!"  
Al knelt and hugged Trudy. "That's right, Trudy," he praised. Though he still felt ill, and was scared being home alone, he found he felt much better now that the light shined down on them.  
"When does Mommy come back?"  
Al sighed and rubbed his nose, trying to keep from crying. "I-I don't know, Trudy. I don't know when she's coming back."  
Trudy pensively twisted her hair. "Does Mommy come back?" she asked with tears in her eyes.  
Al didn't answer. He didn't want to think about their mother's absence--or about why she had left. But Trudy began crying and calling out for her. The sound of her name brought the picture of his mother stepping into the taxi to the forefront of his thoughts. He swallowed hard to keep the tears from breaking forth.  
Trudy's tears took on a different tone. "Al?" She tugged on his sleeve. "Hungry."  
Al had been feeling so ill food was the farthest thing from his mind. Trudy, however, knew it was past the time when she usually got her dinner. Al nervously glanced toward the kitchen. He didn't hear the mouse scurrying any longer. The light must have scared it away, he decided. Still, he wasn't looking forward to going back into the kitchen. He felt the bitter air coming through the broken window.  
Trudy's tugs grew more insistent. "Hungry," she repeated, firmly.  
Al looked into the kitchen once more. No sign of the mouse. Fortunately, the light from the living room illuminated the kitchen somewhat, so he wouldn't have to fumble about blindly. He began to enter the room, but stopped when the sour-sweet smell of his sickness wafted upward. He grabbed the doorjamb and fought against the temptation to give in to the nausea.  
"Hungry, Al," Trudy complained.  
Al took a deep breath and plunged into the kitchen. He looked in the cabinets for something he would be able to prepare for his sister. Momma hadn't been to the market for the week yet, he realized. The only thing he found was a small can of tuna. Al grabbed it and rummaged in a drawer for a can opener.  
Al sat on the floor and began stabbing at the can with the can opener. His clumsy fingers merely produced a series of jagged holes. He couldn't coordinate his movements to cut around the edge of the can.  
Trudy began to wail and showed signs of beginning a tantrum. She yelled that she was hungry over and over again. Al hurried his efforts with the can opener. As Trudy's shouts escalated to a high-pitched screech, Al slipped and cut his thumb on the ragged edge of the can.  
"I'm going as fast as I can!" he hollered. He stuck his bleeding thumb in his mouth. Frustrated, he flung the can opener across the kitchen. "You'll get your food in a minute," he snapped. "Just be quiet!"  
Trudy's wails abruptly ceased. Al sat uncomfortably in the silence that followed. He examined the messy lid of the can. Shards of tin gleamed in the exposed tuna. Trudy couldn't eat that, Al knew. He listened to her sniffles as she tried to keep her tears muffled.  
Al shoved the can away. He hurried to Trudy's side. "I'm sorry, Trudy," he said. "I shouldn't have yelled at you."  
Trudy raised forlorn eyes for a moment and then turned away. She ran to the couch and threw herself face down upon it. Her shoulders quivered as she sobbed.  
Al closed his eyes in guilt. He stood, and swayed momentarily as the living room swirled before his eyes. Slowly, battling nausea the entire way, Al made his way across the room to the couch. He pressed a hand to his throbbing head before climbing onto the sofa. He touched Trudy's shoulder.  
"I'm sorry, Trudy. It wasn't your fault."  
Trudy didn't answer. Al didn't even hear her sobs any longer. He lifted a handful of curls to find that she had cried herself to sleep.  
Al shivered as a blast of cold air crept under the door and combined with a draft from the broken window. He stretched out next to his sister and pressed against her as closely as he could to warm her. He was asleep almost as soon as his head touched the cushions. 


	4. Chapter 4

Mr. Calavicci rubbed his hands vigorously against his arms and stamped his feet to warm himself. His breath clouded before his face in the misty early morning air. That last construction site had been in a much warmer climate, and it was taking his body a while to adjust back to the chill of the city. He blew on his fingers before reaching into his pocket for his house key. It felt wonderful to be home. He couldn't wait to see his wife and children.  
The key turned in the lock as silently as he could manage. He didn't want to startle or wake them since he was there even before the milkman. The door creaked on its hinges and slowly swung inward.  
Mr. Calavicci turned to close the door quietly. As he latched it again, he realized his house didn't smell right. The living room reeked of alcohol and it mingled with a more sour smell emanating from the kitchen. He turned around and stopped short to find his children snuggled against each other on the sofa. Al had his arm wrapped tightly around Trudy. The boy's limbs shivered, though Trudy seemed comfortable. Mr. Calavicci quickly removed his coat and draped it across his son's body.  
Trudy woke up and looked around, searching for the familiarity of her room. Her face lit up with excitement and relief when she caught sight of her father. "Poppy!" she shouted. She wiggled from Al's hold and threw her arms out. "Poppy!"  
Mr. Calavicci put a finger to his lips to caution Trudy to be quiet and not to disturb her sleeping brother, but Al didn't stir. His arm fell limply to the couch when Mr. Calavicci lifted Trudy into his arms. Trudy grabbed hold tightly and buried her face in his neck. "Poppy home, he's home," she cried.  
"I'm home, Trudy, that's right. I'm home," he smiled. He hugged her close. "I missed you, Trudy. You and your brother both. And your momma, too."  
Trudy stiffened in his arms. "Mommy go bye-bye," she said with a frown. "Al don't know when she comes back."  
"Went bye-bye? And left you kids here alone? Are you sure, Trudy?"  
Trudy's lower lip stuck out and she nodded somberly.  
Mr. Calavicci stood up with Trudy in his arms and headed to the hall. Broken glass crunched beneath his workshoes as he passed behind the couch. He looked up to see the stain of a liquid running down the wall. He called out his wife's name several times, but no answer. He pushed down the fear of an adrenaline rush as he opened every door in search of his wife. She was nowhere to be found.  
Trudy's cheeks glistened with shed tears. "No Mommy?"  
Mr. Calavicci shook his head sadly. "No, Trudy. She's not here." He hugged his daughter again and noticed the stains covering the back of her dress.  
"Oh, Trudy, you're all dirty, honey. Let's change your dress, okay?"  
"No bath," Trudy protested.  
Mr. Calavicci carried Trudy into her bedroom. "No, you don't have to take a bath yet, Trudy." He opened her closet and pulled out a red dress. Trudy smiled and nodded at his selection. She stuck her arms in the air and sat very still as he pulled the soiled dress over her head and slipped the clean one on her. "My, my, look how beautiful," he smiled.  
Trudy beamed at her father. "Show Al?" she asked.  
"Of course we will, Trudy," smiled Mr. Calavicci. He picked her up again and returned to the living room.  
Al still hadn't moved an inch. Mr. Calavicci set Trudy on the floor and sat on the couch next to his son. "Al, wake up," he said in a gentle voice. Al didn't move, nor did he make a sound. Mr. Calavicci softly shook his son's shoulder. "Al," he said, louder this time. "Albert, wake up, son."  
Al groaned, but didn't move. Trudy stood on tiptoe and poked her brother through the coat. "Al! Wake up!" she shouted.  
Mr. Calavicci pushed Trudy's arms to her sides. "Don't poke your brother again, Trudy. I don't think he feels good."  
She nodded. "He got sick. Al hurted."  
"Hurted?" Mr. Calavicci turned his full attention to his daughter in alarm. "How is he hurted, Trudy?"  
"Al's gots red all over him," Trudy answered.  
Confused and frightened, Mr. Calavicci pulled the coat off his son and turned him on his back. Al's right arm was covered with drying blood, and blood was spread all over his shirt. His face was bruised purple and blue, and was marked with the black trickles of dried blood on his cheek. Mr. Calavicci yanked his son's shirt open to check for open wounds. He only found bruises, which alleviated his fear that Al's chest had been bleeding in addition to his arm.  
"Trudy, what happened? Did Al get in a fight?"  
Trudy shrugged. "He went nite-nite."  
Mr. Calavicci struggled to make sense of Trudy's cryptic answers. "Has he been sleeping the whole time, Trudy?"  
Trudy shook her head. "No, he woke up and then he got sick." She wrinkled her nose. "Smell bad, too."  
"Where did he get sick, Trudy?" he pressed, trying to put all the pieces together.  
She pointed to the kitchen.  
Mr. Calavicci stepped into the kitchen and immediately noticed the broken window and the pile of vomit in the corner. He hurried back to his son's side.  
Mr. Calavicci pressed the back of his hand against Al's forehead, checking for a fever. Al felt cold, not hot. He lifted his son into his lap and pressed his body against Al's to warm his child.  
"What happened to make Al go nite-nite?" he asked.  
Trudy frowned. "I don't know, Poppy."  
Al moaned and rolled his head from side to side. Mr. Calavicci caught his breath and prayed silently as he waited. Al's eyes slitted open and he winced at the light.  
"Al?" Mr. Calavicci asked.  
Al's head moved towards the sound, but his eyes remained slits. Mr. Calavicci repeated his name over and over again until his son opened his eyes all the way.  
Al stared dumbfoundedly at his father's face for several minutes. "Papa?" he asked hoarsely. He tried to raise his limp arms to hug his father, but he began crying as the movement caused his right arm to begin throbbing.  
Mr. Calavicci drew his son close. "Shh, it's all right now, Al. I'm here." He hugged him tenderly, not wanting to inflict pain on the bruises covering his son's body. "How do you feel, son?"  
"M-my head h-hurts," Al stammered. "I-I hurt ev-every-w-where." He cried harder than before. Mr. Calavicci couldn't remember seeing Al so scared. Even as a baby Al had never cried so hard. And the stammering was something new. Al never stuttered. Something was seriously wrong with his son.  
"How did you get hurt, Al?" he asked.  
"I-I d-don't know." Al tried to raise his head to look around the room. "W-where's M-Momma?"  
Trudy looked curiously at her brother. "Mommy go bye-bye, Al," she said sadly.  
Al shook his head despairingly. "No. Nooooo," he wailed. He gagged on his tears and the bile the sudden movement of his head brought up.  
Mr. Calavicci gently propped his son into a sitting position and ran his hand up and down Al's trembling back. "Shhh," he whispered. He kissed his son's forehead. Al shivered from the cold and his sobbing.  
"Trudy. Honey, run next door to the boarding house and get Mrs. Lorenzo to come over, okay?"  
Trudy nodded and ran out of the house, slamming the door behind her. The sound of her shoes clattering on the pavement grew fainter as she left the yard.  
Al's breathing was growing labored and harsh. His eyes widened in panic and he clutched his father's shirt. "I d-don't f-feel good, Papa."  
Mr. Calavicci grabbed a glass bowl and dumped the wilting flower arrangement and water on the floor. He held the bowl for his son as Al emptied his stomach. If it were possible, Al began crying even harder. He seemed to be hyperventilating. Mr. Calavicci forced Al to lay on his back and gently rubbed his chest to calm him. As Al's breathing settled down, Mr. Calavicci reached for his handkerchief and dabbed at the corners of Al's mouth.  
The door slammed open and a panting Trudy ran in, followed by the plump form of Mrs. Lorenzo.  
"Oh, Lord!" Mrs. Lorenzo exclaimed as she caught sight of Al's face. "What happened?"  
"I don't know, Mrs. Lorenzo. I came home to find him like this. Apparently my wife has left, I don't know where or why," he explained. "Will you please sit with Al while I use your phone to call a doctor?"  
Mrs. Lorenzo nodded. "Go! Go!" she gestured at the door. She sat on the couch and put Al's head in her lap.  
Mr. Calavicci hesitated for one moment and then ran out of the house. The door slammed behind him.  
Al's eyes wandered about the room aimlessly. Mrs. Lorenzo ran her hand across his forehead and murmured soothingly to him in Italian.  
"So, Trudy," she said to the little girl, "your Momma went away."  
Trudy nodded and blinked tears away. "Mommy go bye-bye."  
"And your father doesn't know where?"  
Trudy shook her head. Al moaned and quietly called for his mother.  
Mrs. Lorenzo cursed in Italian. "I know where she went. And with who." She caressed Al's forehead again. "I can't believe she would leave her own family for that good-for-nothing salesman! Thinks he knows everything because he sells knowledge. Encyclopedia salesman, pah!" She spat on the floor. She continued talking to herself. "I saw how he looked at her. Even when he was at my door he kept looking back over here. And she was on the porch looking back. That's where she went, mark my words."  
Al's mind brought back a picture of the man with the books who had been at the door the other day. He looked like one of the movie stars. Was that really where his mother had gone? Had she left to be with the salesman?  
Al rolled his head to the side in distress. "Come back, M-Momma! I'll b-be good!" he cried.  
Mrs. Lorenzo looked helplessly at the despondent child in her lap. She smoothed his hair as she spoke. "Al, you are a good boy. You're a very good boy. And you take such good care of your little sister." She stopped to smile at Trudy.  
Trudy stared at her brother. Her brow creased as she tried to think of a way to help him. She slowly walked to his side and kissed his cheek. "I love you, Al. Don't be hurted."  
Mr. Calavicci hurried back into the house. "Thank you, Mrs. Lorenzo. The ambulance is on its way." He supported Al's head as they exchanged places. "Thank you very much," he repeated.  
Mrs. Lorenzo looked down at Trudy thoughtfully. "Do you think seeing her brother in an ambulance will scare her?"  
"You're right, it might do that," he realized. "Would you . . . ?"  
Mrs. Lorenzo held her hand up and spoke to Trudy. "Are you hungry, sweetie? Would you like some breakfast?"  
Trudy nodded and looked at her father for permission. Mr. Calavicci nodded with relief and smiled as Mrs. Lorenzo led her to the boarding house.  
Al tried to look at his father, but his eyes kept trailing off. Mr. Calavicci quickly racked his brain for a way to keep his son's attention. The doctor he had spoken to had told him not to let Al fall asleep.  
"Al, I'm very proud of you, son," he said. Al's drooping eyelids rose at the praise. "You did such a wonderful job of taking care of Trudy while I was gone. Such a big boy."  
Al smiled weakly and parted his lips to speak. "N-not that b-big."  
"Oh, I don't know about that," his father broke in. "I've seen how you look after her. I've even seen how you defend her."  
A sob broke into Al's words. "M-Momma don't l-like it when I f- fight."  
Mr. Calavicci hesitated before he spoke again. "Perhaps not, but you look out for your sister. You took care of her last night, didn't you?"  
Al struggled to remember. He did seem to remember trying to do something for Trudy. What was it? "I g-guess s-so."  
Mr. Calavicci decided to try and change the subject before Al became distraught again. "I got a letter from Uncle Jack," he said.  
Al's face brightened at the mention of his favorite uncle. "Is h-he gonna come v-v-visit?" he asked.  
"He's gonna try," Mr. Calavicci promised. "And he's going to bring your new aunt, too."  
Al looked confused. "N-new aunt?"  
Mr. Calavicci smiled at his son, relieved that he had caught his interest. "Uncle Jack just got married," he explained. "To a lady named Clarissa. So that makes her your Aunt Clarissa. And you'll get to meet her when they come visit."  
"Aunt C-C-Cla-r-r-r-issssss-a," Al struggled to force the syllables out. He looked exhausted when he finished.  
Mr. Calavicci looked out the window in hopes of seeing the ambulance. He threw another topic out before Al could fall asleep.  
"So, Al, what movie would you like to see with Uncle Jack? He said he wants to take you during his visit."  
Al perked up again. "O-one with a M-Mickey M-Mouse c-cartoon. A W- Western, p-please."  
"A Western? You still like watching those?"  
Al smiled at his father. "Y-yes, s-sir. I l-like 'em a l-lot."  
Mr. Calavicci relaxed at the sound of the sirens outside. Al tensed in fear at the unexpected noise. "W-what's th-that, P-Papa?" he asked.  
"That's an ambulance, son. It's going to take you to the hospital so you can feel better."  
"H-hos-p-pital?" Al's eyes widened. His body jerked when the paramedics knocked on the door.  
"It's open," Mr. Calavicci called. He held Al's hand. "It's okay, Al. I'm right beside you."  
Al squeezed his father's hand tightly when the paramedic approached. He shrank back from the stranger dressed in white.  
The paramedic lightly ran his hands across Al's face and head, checking for bumps. Al jerked his eyes toward his father pleadingly. He cried out when the paramedic's fingers grazed the back of his head.  
"There it is," the paramedic nodded. "Probably a concussion." He noticed Al's terror and stuck a hand out in greeting. "Hi there. My name's Bob, what's yours?"  
Al looked at his father. When Mr. Calavicci nodded, he answered Bob, "A-A-Al."  
"Well, Al, you've got a nasty bunch of cuts and bruises here. We need to take you to the hospital to get you all fixed up so you can run around again. My friend Nelson here is going to help you onto this nifty bed. It's got wheels on it, like a car."  
Nelson came near and smiled at Al. "Nelson, be careful of the right arm, okay?" instructed Bob. He held the bed steady as Nelson lifted Al from Mr. Calavicci's lap and laid him on the bed. He stretched belts across Al's body without a word. Al began to scream and cry.  
"Al, Al, buddy," Bob soothed, casting a nasty glare at Nelson. "We don't want you falling out of the bed. Those are just to keep you safe."  
"P-Papa," Al wept, "I w-want my P-Papa!"  
Mr. Calavicci rushed to his side and took hold of his fingers. "I'm right here, Al. I'm right beside you, son."  
The paramedics pushed the bed out of the house and carried it down the steps of the porch. Al cried out in terror when his father had to let go of his fingers. Mr. Calavicci spoke in a loud voice so Al would know he was still there. He climbed into the back of the ambulance and held his son's fingers all the way to the hospital. Al sobbed for the entire trip.  
When they arrived at the hospital, the paramedics instructed Mr. Calavicci to wait in the lobby and whisked Al down the hallway of the emergency area. Al's terrified screams echoed down the hallway.  
"Sir," a nurse spoke behind him. "I need you to fill out some forms for your son, please." She led the way to a nearby desk and handed him a stack of papers.  
Mr. Calavicci looked down the hallway again and set about filling out the forms. He thought he had never seen so many blank lines to be filled in. He felt as relieved as one could feel in a hospital when he reached the final form requiring his signature. The nurse thanked him, took the forms, and led him to a waiting area.  
"Wait here," she said.  
"Can't I see my son?" he asked.  
She shook her head. "No, I'm sorry, it isn't allowed. Someone will come get you when you can see him."  
Mr. Calavicci sighed and rested his head in his hands. He was worried about his son and there was nothing he could do. Nothing at all. Except . . . .  
He looked up and caught the attention of another nurse. "Nurse, is there a chapel?" he asked.  
"Yes, sir," she answered. "Follow me." She walked briskly down the hallway and opened a heavy wooden door. "Right in there," she pointed.  
Mr. Calavicci thanked her and stepped inside.  
He reached into the bowl of holy water at the entrance and crossed himself before entering the sanctuary. As he reached a pew near the front, he knelt before the great crucifix on the wall and crossed himself again before slipping in. He lowered the prayer rail and knelt, resting his elbows on the pew in front of him.  
Mr. Calavicci began by praying to the Virgin Mary. "Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for our sins," he prayed aloud. He recited every prayer he knew, and when he had exhausted those, he began speaking his thoughts.  
"Lord, there's nothing I can do to help my son right now. He's scared and alone and he's hurting. I know You can help him. Help him to stop hurting and be with him so he's not scared. His mother is gone, I don't know where, though I'm sure You do. I don't know why she left, but You do. Please be with her, too. Bring her home."  
He stopped when he heard the door creak open behind him. He turned around to see a young nurse walking down the aisle. She stopped uncertainly by his pew.  
"Mr. Calavicci?" she asked. When he nodded, she continued. "Dr. Whitman sent me to find you. You can see your son now."  
Mr. Calavicci leapt from the pew and barely stopped to cross himself again. "How is he?" he demanded.  
"I'm not allowed to deliver prognoses," she said, as if reciting a script. "You'll have to talk with Dr. Whitman. Follow me, please."  
He expected to be led to the hallway Al had been wheeled down upon his arrival, but she brought him up to the second floor. She paused at the nurses' station and spoke briefly with the nurse behind the desk before leading Mr. Calavicci to a room.  
He stepped inside and saw a nurse winding a white bandage around Al's right arm, which was covered with stitches. Al's head was covered with a bandage, with only a few dark curls peeking out from the front. Butterfly bandages sealed the puncture wounds on his brow and cheek. Surrounded by the white of the bandages and the bed linens, the bruises on Al's face stood out more sharply than they had at home.  
The nurse finished winding the bandage, taped it down, and smiled at Mr. Calavicci as she left. He looked at his son's face and sighed. Al's closed lids were tinged blue, from bruises, Mr. Calavicci guessed with anger.  
He carefully edged his hip on Al's bed and took his son's hand. The small fingers tightened reflexively around his big hand. "You're not going to be hurt again, Al," he promised. His thumb covered his son's fingers protectively.  
He heard a throat being cleared behind him and turned to see a tall man in a white coat enter the room. The man extended a hand and introduced himself as Dr. Whitman. Mr. Calavicci shook his hand and introduced himself as well.  
"Your, uh, son was in pretty bad shape," said the doctor.  
Mr. Calavicci nodded. "I was out of town on business. I found him like that when I got home this morning. I don't know how it happened."  
"Yes, well, uh, your son couldn't remember anything to help us, either," Dr. Whitman said. "But, it, uh, it looks like he was, uh, beaten." He looked uncomfortable. "You, uh, you wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"  
Mr. Calavicci shook his head. "No, doctor. I've had to spank him before, but that's strictly on his rump. He does get into fights over his little sister. She's retarded and the neighborhood children make fun of her." He smiled down at his son. "Al doesn't like that, and he defends her."  
Dr. Whitman nodded. "Yes, some of the bruises look like they came from a fight, but, uh, others are very recent, and they look like he was beaten by someone much bigger than him." He pointed to the bandaged arm. "Those lacerations were very deep, too. Do you know where they came from?"  
"The kitchen window was broken. That's the only place I can think where he could have gotten cut. Although I did find some broken glass on the floor this morning, too," Mr. Calavicci said, thinking back. He pictured the kitchen. "He threw up several times, does that mean anything?"  
"Yes, uh, it confirms what I suspected. Your son suffered a concussion. It appears his head came into violent contact with a solid surface," said Dr. Whitman. "Did your wife have any clue as to how this had happened?"  
Mr. Calavicci frowned. "No, she wasn't there. My daughter said she had left the day before, but Al couldn't remember his mother leaving or how he got hurt."  
"He may remember, he may never remember. Head injuries are tricky things. Well, I appreciate your help, Mr. Calavicci. I'd like to keep your son here for twenty-four hours just to be safe."  
Mr. Calavicci nodded and shook the doctor's hand in thanks. When he was alone with his son again, he picked Al's hand up. Once again, the child's fingers tightened around his hand. Mr. Calavicci smiled and traced his son's jawline.  
"That's my strong, strong son. You're going to be fine."  
Al's eyelids fluttered open and he tried to adjust to his surroundings. He visibly relaxed when he saw his father. "P-Papa," he smiled. The stutter was still there, but it wasn't as severe as it had been when the ambulance arrived. "Where am I?"  
"You're in the hospital, Al. The doctors fixed you all up, and you can come home tomorrow."  
"Tomorrow? W-why can't I come home now?" His eyes filled with tears.  
Mr. Calavicci patted Al's hand. "Dr. Whitman wants you to spend the night here to be sure everything's fixed inside your head."  
"Inside my head?" Al asked. He pulled his hand from beneath his father's and touched his head. His eyes widened when his fingers encountered the gauze. "Am I b-broken forever?"  
His father chuckled, "No, no. You're going to be fine. Have I ever lied to you?"  
Al shook his head, smiling when he didn't immediately feel sick. He raised his arm for a hug, snuggling his head against his father's chest and holding on tightly. "Can you stay here with me, P-Papa?"  
"No, Al, I'm afraid I can't. I'm sorry, son, but I can't leave Trudy alone."  
Al's face fell. Mr. Calavicci hurried with a solution.  
"But I will come back this afternoon and bring Trudy to visit you, how's that?"  
"Okay," Al smiled. He still looked disappointed.  
"Hey, I'm not leaving now. I can stay with you for a little while longer," Mr. Calavicci tried. It worked. Al relaxed and beamed at his father. He reached up and slipped his small hand inside his father's giant, strong one.  
"C-Can you tell me a story?" asked Al.  
"Of course. What do you want to hear?"  
Al shrugged and grinned. "I don't care. You pick one. I'll l- listen."  
"Fair enough. How about Jack and the Beanstalk?"  
Al nodded and snuggled against his pillows as his father began telling the story. He giggled and imitated the giant's chant with Mr. Calavicci. "Fe-f-fi-fo-f-fum," he stammered with a huge grin on his face. Al fell asleep moments before the beanstalk toppled to the ground.  
"The End," whispered Mr. Calavicci. He leaned over and kissed his son. "I'll be back later. Sleep well." 


	5. Chapter 5

Mr. Calavicci stepped off the bus and walked down the streets of his neighborhood. Within minutes he had reached his street. He paused before his house, and decided to go inside and straighten things before getting Trudy from Mrs. Lorenzo's boarding house.  
He pushed the door open and steeled himself before he walked into the disaster he realized was his home. Alcohol and vomit assailed his nose again, and he decided to clean the kitchen first. Mr. Calavicci stuffed a towel into the broken pane to block the frigid air, although by shutting out the moving air, the smell hung in the kitchen. As quickly as he could, Mr. Calavicci cleaned and disposed of the remains of Al's sickness. He tossed the mop and the bowl he had held for his son earlier into the refuse heap. That done, he set about cleaning the alcohol from the living room.  
Mr. Calavicci wiped the spilled alcohol from the table first, pausing momentarily to fling the empty gin bottle into the refuse heap as well. He moved to the wall and scrubbed the stain as best as he could. The glass crunched beneath his shoes again, and Mr. Calavicci knelt to pick up the broken pieces. He began at the wall and worked his way back. When he had collected all the pieces in his hand, he turned to rise and carry them to the refuse. He pressed a hand into the corner to steady himself, and that was when he felt the depression in the wall.  
He tossed the glass out and returned to the corner. He squatted down and ran his hand inside the dent in the wall again. The depression was about Al's height, and Mr. Calavicci remembered the doctor's diagnosis that Al's concussion was the result of striking his head against a solid surface. The blood drained from Mr. Calavicci's face as he contemplated the force required to create such a mark in the wall. Suddenly, all the pieces fell into place: the alcohol, the bruises, his wife's absence, and Al's concussion.  
"Oh, God. Oh, God, no. How could I have been so blind?" He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his hand inside the depression. "I'm sorry," he whispered, not knowing whether he was addressing his children or his wife.  
He rose and stood uncertainly in the living room for several seconds. He didn't know where to go or what to do. As if in a daze, he stumbled into his bedroom. He sank onto the bed and buried his face in his hands. His thoughts were flooded with memories of Al's face. How many black eyes were the result of fights defending Trudy, and how many had come at the hands of his mother? How could his wife do this to her child? He dropped to one knee and thanked God that Al seemed to be doing well. Mr. Calavicci found himself praying that Al would never remember the circumstances surrounding his mother's leaving.  
Mr. Calavicci ran his hands through his hair and raised his head. He stared at his haggard face in the dresser mirror, searching for an answer to the question of how he could have missed the signs that his wife was beating their son. His job took him away very often, but he didn't excuse himself on that account. He dropped his eyes, noticing a letter propped against the mirror.  
He picked it up and sat down on the bed to read it. The letter was smeared in places, where his wife's tears had fallen. As he read, his own tears added splashmarks.  
  
Dear Gino,  
I don't know where to begin. My hand is shaking as I write this. I have done something terrible. It's unforgivable for a mother to do what I have done. I am so ashamed of myself, and I can't stay here to see your face and the faces of our children--especially poor Albert's face. Each little mark, each bruise....I have caused them. I was so drunk I didn't even know what I was doing. I'm surprised I even noticed when he fell to the floor. Oh, God, when I think about the sickening sound of his head hitting the wall....  
And then, the first thing I did was reach for a drink. My child was lying on the floor and all I could do was pick up a glass of gin. I can't do this anymore. I can't handle the children, I miss you so much all I do is drink, and then I have no idea what I do to my babies. It's better if I leave. It's better for our children to have no mother at all than a mother like me.  
I know one day you will make it, just like you planned. Then you can give our children the life they deserve. Perhaps you can make up to them for the evils I've done. I leave because I love them. Because I am afraid I will hurt them even more one day and not know what I did.  
One day, maybe, they'll understand. When they are old enough you can explain things to them. Until then, know that I love them, Al and Trudy. And you, Gino, I love you. Goodbye.  
Love,  
Katrina 


	6. author's notes

This story, originally written as a four page vignette in April of 1995, was posted to the QL Archive in September of that year (and published in the on-line magazine InterFace). Later, after much prompting by friends and family who felt that there should be more to the story (and after having the ideas bouncing around in my own head), I wrote the rest of the story, which appeared in slightly altered form in the QL Fanzine, LEAPS AND FISHES I: To Write What Once Went Wrong (1996).   
  
As with all things, I'd like to thank God first and foremost for the gifts He's given to me. Secondly, I'd like to thank Jenni Bohn for prompting me in 1995 to share this story on the 'Net, Kat Freymuth for urging me to post the rest of it in the QL Archive, my mom for her wonderful support of my writing, and my best friends for prompting me to go on and write the rest of it!! 


End file.
